To Sevenoaks!

Only three miles to Sevenoaks, it always seems longer.

I remember once riding to the sign that read "Sevenoaks" and then turning back. The thing is, it's always bugged me, not riding into town, so at the weekend just past I decided, kind of on the hop, that I would ride all the way and stop for lunch. When I say 'kind of on the hop' I mean that when I set off, while a longer ride was sort of on the cards I was still thinking along the lines of riding into Oxted and chilling with a book at Caffe Nero, accompanied by an apricot croissant. It was, however, later than usual, gone 1030hrs when I left the house so when I reached the crucial point, just past Botley Hill (do I ride down the hill to Oxted or head in the direction of Westerham?) I hesitated for all of a few seconds and then headed towards Westerham; and as I sailed down Clarks Lane I remembered the Velobarn, so I hung a left on to Pilgrims Lane and rode straight there. Miraculously it was open, much to my surprise, so I decided to chill with a cup of tea and an almond croissant before continuing my journey, but where to? I couldn't very well ride into Westerham (all of 10 minutes) and then have ANOTHER tea. So I pondered my situation briefly and crossed the road into the continuation of Pilgrims Lane. It's rare, I have to admit, that I venture this way, normally to visit Longford Lake, and it did cross my mind to go there and possibly have lunch in the Harvey's pub facing the famous lake. But no, there was always Malabar in Dunton Green or perhaps I could ride all the way into Sevenoaks, past the sign and into town. After a while, as I rode along Pilgrims Lane and followed the country lanes that paralleled the motorway I knew I had to give Sevenoaks a chance. The ride from the sign into town wasn't at all bad, a hill, yes, but not a bad one and soon I found myself in the bustle of a fairly busy town, so busy that I'd have to dismount and walk myself and the bike to my destination, which was Soprano's, a cafe I know and love and a place I have visited many a time. I was a little worried about leaving the bike unattended, even if I did have a padlock, but fortunately there was a table outside and the weather was fine so I left the bike leaning, unpadlocked, against a wall opposite the cafe and enjoyed the sunshine. I ordered a glass of sparkling mineral water and something called a Jerzy Piadina (at Soprano's most things involve cheese and this was no exception, it was chicken and cheese between two flatbreads with a pleasant little salad. People passed by, young couples, older couples, humanity of all sorts and I decided to push the boat out until I realised that Soprano's doesn't do desserts, it offers cake in a few varieties and instead I ordered another sparkling mineral water and took in my surroundings. The sun was shining brightly, this was a summer's day in late April if ever there was one and I found myself remembering swimming in the sea at Lyme Regis back in April 1984. I also remember snow in April 2008, which I think is documented somewhere on this blog, it's certainly been mentioned before, but remember, the blog didn't start until September 2009, over a year later.

A Jerzy Piadina at Soprano's.

Now, for some, cycling a 35-mile round trip to Sevenoaks for lunch is excessive, although it was a decision I made on the hop; for others (like Andy) 35 miles is a piss in the ocean (he rode over 100 miles on the same day I was basking in the sunshine outside of Soprano's). For me, 35 miles was a good distance and the worst bit, of course, was the sudden realisation that I'd have to cycle home. I can't say I was looking forward to it and there was no way I would be taking the train home. I set off with a happy heart and rode downhill towards Riverhead and it was there that I decided to take the A25 rather than the country lanes on the other side of Dunton Green. It was certainly busier in terms of cars, but fairly straightforward and it wasn't long before I found myself in Westerham where people were sunning themselves on the green. I was thinking of making a stop to take on board water and possibly another cup of tea and I thought I'd head for the Velobarn as it was only around 1500hrs so I figured it had to be open: it wasn't. Next stop, Botley Hill and the Sheep Shed, but when I got there I thought it best to push on and get home and so I did, along the 269 all the way to Sanderstead and when I reached home nobody was there. I sat and watched television drinking tea and a large glass of water but I felt good and I'll certainly be doing it again soon.

The Velobarn around 1500hrs – closed! 

En route to Verona...

 I wanted to take the train. Train travel is by far the very best there is, but sadly it's very expensive and, oddly – you would have thought it might be the other way around – air travel is ridiculously cheap. We all know why this is: air travel is heavily subsidized and, as a result, it's not the haven of the glamour puss any more, no longer the place you'll find supermodels and film stars. Or rather it is, but they all fly in First Class and hide away from the plebs in the lounges. That said, I once bumped in to Jimmy Somerville, I spotted a stand-up comedian whose name I can't remember and I think that's about the level of my airport celeb spotting.

The train to Verona is possible, but it would have meant arriving at gone midnight and that simply wouldn't do. Why? Because I was being picked up, by 'Maria' and driven to my hotel, which is located in a place called Storo, which I'm guessing is a fair way from Verona. I won't be seeing the famous Romeo and Juliet balcony on this trip, unless I can fit it in on the return journey, which is not out of the question. From now on, however, if I can take the train, I will. I'm going to Dusseldorf in June and the plan is to train it all the way as it's only around three hours from Brussels.

The Grain Store café and bar, Wednesday 15 March 2023, noon.

So, the airport. I took the train to Gatwick, mainly because I hate cars almost as much as I hate planes and I hate taxis just a little bit more. First, they're a rip-off, second, the driver is invariably racist and won't stop talking in a derogatory manner about the Mayor of London and lastly, I just can't be bothered with cabs when I can walk to the railway station and just jump on a train: no hassle, no chat, no nothing other than looking out of the window, which is what I did until I reached Gatwick and then, of course, the shit begins in earnest. Fortunately, my British Airways flight was leaving from the South Terminal so I didn't need to jump on the monorail and head for the North Terminal, that's a relief. But then I did have to endure the capitalist scumbags, yes British Airways, but hey, any airline can be allocated the same description for the simple reason that they do all they can to make more money for themselves and they don't care if that means inconveniencing the customer – me!

They've now got auto bag drop systems. No longer the human being who checks your passport, hands you your boarding pass and takes your bag. Now it's a queue for a machine, which somehow defeats the purpose. I've always been of the opinion that if a machine is involved it's allieviating something, ie queues, but not any more; these days people queue for a machine, but guess what? The queue for the human beings is even longer. I couldn't stomach it. I was standing there in the zig zag of travellers thinking 'this is going to take ages' and after trying to stick it out twice I eventually relented, walked to the auto check-in kiosk, took my boarding pass from the machine (I took the liberty of booking myself a window seat (28a) and then queued in the smaller queue for the machines. I nearly sent my bag to Tampa, Florida in the process. The guy before me pressed something, I'm not sure, but when I reached the machine it was still thinking everybody was going to Tampa. When my tag was printed it clearly said 'Tampa' so I moved to another machine and it kind of worked, although the conveyor jammed and I had to call an assistant and then it was alright. But my problems weren't over – better make that 'hassles'. It's just a hassle going through security, putting the laptop in a separate tray and so forth, but, I suppose, in all honesty, it wasn't too bad and once I was through with it, all I had left to deal with was the society of the spectacle. I had to run the gauntlet of perfumes and alcohol, watches and God knows what else. I had no intention of buying anything but I did squirt myself with a liberal amount of Davidoff Cool Water, just to make myself smell good. I always smell good when I'm on a plane, thanks to the testers.

I'm now sitting in the Grain Store café bar sipping a cappuccino and nibbling (to my own disappointment) an almond croissant. This, I know, has to stop. Yesterday it was my colleague's birthday and she brought in a caterpillar cake. I would have just had one slice, but I found myself irritated by somebody else in the office who, it seemed, was intent on playing 'the old man'. I hate that. When people play the old man, the pensioner or whatever when they're not that old and should really be just getting on with life without whingeing. There are loads of 'old people' words that I try to avoid: Lumbago, Sciatica, Secateurs and, of course, the Daily Mail. I don't want to hear people moaning about their fucking gout or how their knees are playing up, this is the stuff of old people and I won't have it. I know people get these ailments, of course they do, but whingeing about them in an old person kind of way just makes me annoyed. Why, I ask myself, do they wish to be considered old before their time. My mum IS old, she's 93, she can moan, but not one of my work colleagues. But it's not just him. I've heard celebs (who are not old) moaning (in a jokey manner) about ear hair, nose hair and how things just ain't working they way they used to. Fine! Moan! But moan on your own, in a locked room, a soundproof room in the middle of the desert because I don't want to hear it, do you understand me? I don't want to hear it.

I arrived at Gatwick "well early" so it looks as if I'm going to get the full two-hour slob-out. The last thing I want to do is buy any food or drink in the flight so I'm going to order something else before I vacate my seat at the table of this rather nice little café. But hold the bus! This place ain't cheap. The 'mains & grills' range in price from £14.75 for vegetarian chilli to £21 for grilled salmon, there are desserts (if I'm to make out that my almond croissant was the main course) but do I really want to scoff key lime pie, pecan pie or even a pavlova. There are burgers, salads, pizzas and 'small plates' but the latter are piss poor and I can't very well order another pastry or another cappuccino, that would be a little piggish. Perhaps another coffee? But cappuccino is roughly 135 calories a go, making 270 in total. Do I want that? I could order tea, that's zero calories if served black and not much more with a smidgen of milk. But do I really want more or am I just in need of comfort. The most legitimate would be the Full English breakfast, but really? Imagine when it arrives and I stare at the bacon, sausage, egg and hash browns, not forgetting the baked beans, the mushrooms and the sourdough toast. Do I really want it or am I simply being a huge pig, a rare breed lump of pork who needs to eat no more and just make do with the still mineral water that stands before me? No, I can't eat more, it's wrong on so many levels.

There's over an hour before my flight departs Gatwick and I know that outside of the café is nothing but the society of the spectacle in the shape of rubbish clothes and electronic goods, books I don't need to read right now and stuff nobody really needs. They're capitalizing on people's boredom, that's what it is and there's no way I'm going to play ball. What I could do is go to Starbuck's and order a tea and simply sit there until it's time to make my way to the gate, now that's got to be the plan. I can continue reading Buzzin' by Bez, my latest book. Yes, I finished The Bear Comes Home by Rafi Zabor, which turned out to be reasonably good in the end. So, listen, I'm going to sign off. 

Things are looking up ...

I say things are looking up because the weather has changed... for the best. I say 'for the best' because it's no longer cold, that all stopped last week. I was in Bruges last week (well, last Thursday and Friday) and it was bitterly cold, even when wearing a fairly heavy suit. I had to wrap up warm on the Friday when I spent most of the day walking around, popping into shops, diving into cafes and so forth, but generally I was just mooching, me and a pal from work. It happens yearly at this time: the company takes the entire workforce abroad for what is billed as the Christmas Party, a kind of belated event, but is really the company conference. The conference bit lasts all of 30 minutes and then, after a quiz (if there's time, there wasn't last week) we head out for dinner and then have the whole of the following day to explore and do as we please until it's time to go home. We went to and from Bruges in a coach and via Le Shuttle, which was fairly painless. We all stayed in the Novotel Brugge Centrum (I was in room 353) and on Friday morning I enjoyed an amazing breakfast before heading out to find a small teashop in which to sit and read for half an hour or so. We left Bruges around 1530hrs and I reached home around 2030hrs. All was good.

In Bruges...lovely place!

On Saturday morning the plan had always been to ride to either Oxted or Limpsfield. I left later than expected (around 0930hrs) and headed for Coffee at Kiwi House in Limpsfield Village. It's my new place. I reckon the cappuccino is to die for and the almond croissants aren't bad either. However, the last time I was in there it was earlier than it was on Saturday and now I found reserved tables and the need to ask people if I could join the end of their table. Still, no harm done. Like the last time I was here I parked the bike outside and padlocked it to a wooden fence. In all honesty, if anybody had fancied nicking the bike all they would have needed was a small wood saw, but this is snooty Limpsfield, I probably could have left the bike unpadlocked.

Like last week I rode along the 269 to Botley Hill and then down Titsey Hill, which sometimes can be nauseous as the bike shakes its way downwards until the road smooths out a little bit prior to rolling into Limpsfield. Normally I turn right and follow Granville Road into Oxted (about another mile on the journey) or, as on Saturday and the week before, I simply turned left, past the church and the pub and into Coffee at Kiwi House.

Tea in Bruges on Friday morning

The problem with making oneself at home in a coffee shop when you're riding a bike is that nagging thought that, at some stage, you're going to have to ride back; and my ride back is up Titsey Hill. It's not a problem for me, but the thought of it remains awful even if there is a fair ride before I reach the bottom and prepare for the ascent. Once, as I rode up Titsey Hill, I turned right as the ascent began and followed White Lane (an even steeper hill) to where it joins Clarks Lane. Now that's an ordeal, but again, I take it in my stride if I'm honest and then the remaining ride is a bit like the ride back from Westerham. I suppose the good thing about White Lane is that it's a short, sharp, shock whereas Titsey Hill is long and drawn out and seemingly endless. On Saturday I rode the length of Titsey Hill, got myself into a groove and all was well, all that remained was the 269, which is fine if you keep your wits about you.

On Sunday I rode to Westerham to see Andy who was waiting for me in Costa Coffee. These days Costa is a little bit hit and miss (is it or is it not open?) but on Sunday morning (yesterday morning – today's Monday) it was open and Andy was sitting in the window finishing off a cup of coffee. I ordered a tea and joined him. I thought that his Kona was looking pretty good and he told me he'd changed the bars and had recently purchased new tyres. He'd also cleaned it, putting me to shame.

Prior to last week's ice ride to Oxted

I've been pretty crap these past few weeks, not really writing much on my blog (the last post to this one was on 10 January) and I had to admit to Andy that I'd not been reading his blogs either, which is a shame because he's got some big cycling plans on the boil. He's looking in to riding a coast-to-coast route from Lowestoft in Suffolk to Land's End in Cornwall, or possibly Weston-super-Mare, quite a trip and not your traditional coast-to-coast cycle ride (like Liverpool to Scarborough, say). I talked briefly about the up and coming Dunwich Dynamo, something Andy and I have talked about in the past. It's roughly 125 miles through the night from Hackney Wick to Dunwich on the Suffolk Coast. Now don't get me wrong, I'd like to do it – at least I think I do – but I might just like the idea of it, the riding through the night, although I've heard bad things about it too. I'm wondering if I could do a straight 125 miles, at night, without engaging in proper training and I think Andy's of the opinion, quite rightly, that I'd need to train. In fact, he's kind of thrown down a gauntlet, which I'm contemplating as I write this: should I commit to it or not? Andy says the only way you'll do anything is to commit to it and again, he's right. He's said that if I commit, he'll do it with me next year, but on the condition that I train for it; I've yet to get back to him as I'm thinking (and I stress the word 'thinking') about changing the commitment from the Dynamo to a day time coast-to-coast ride, something like the Liverpool to Scarborough jaunt, which used to be the Whitbread Coast-to-Coast. That said, I'm not ruling out the Dynamo, just giving myself time to think about it. I think I could do it, my only worry is having a puncture at 0300hrs in the middle of nowhere. We've decided that we'd spend the day and night in Dunwich and then possibly ride back (so I'd better consider training for a greater distance than just 125 miles) but in all honesty we'd probably opt for the train. So, I've got some thinking to do.

Saturday's cappuccino and almond croissant at Kiwi House

There's a train strike on Wednesday and Friday and I'm thinking about riding it; the evenings have started to brighten up and I reckon that if I left the office around 1600hrs I'd almost get home while it's still light, so that's something else I need to consider. The only other option is the bus or the car, but I think it's a good excuse to get back on the bike for those two magical mid-week extra rides.  

Four rides to Oxted - 80 miles over four consecutive days...

It was looking like another piss poor week on the bike and all my own doing (again). While I got off to a good start last Sunday with a ride to God knows where (I can't remember exactly as I don't have my phone, it's broken, but I think it was Westerham), I then lost the plot on Tuesday and that set in motion the usual crap about riding or not riding. However, the plus point of this week was Easter, which means that Friday wasn't a work day so I rode to Oxted (roughly 20 miles, I think it's something like 19.36 miles). It was absolutely wonderful, it has to be said. Oxted on a warm and sunny morning, hardly any traffic about, the town slowly awaking, and me sitting outside of Caffe Nero with a cappuccino and an almond croissant, earwigging on the conversations of others and taking in a few rays. I realised pretty quickly that life doesn't get much better than this and vowed there and then to ride to Oxted every day of the Easter bank holiday. It meant climbing out of town on Titsey Hill, but that was not impossible. In fact, as the days progressed I got better and better at it and soon realised that it wasn't such a bad hill after all. I know that Andy and I have discussed this before (that Titsey ain't that bad) and it really isn't. The worst bit is early on and probably stretches to around White Lane, but once beyond that the ride beds in, it's not steep, just monotonous, but it's only a drag if you let it become one; I rode up nonchalantly, looking at the trees on either side of the road, listening to the birds singing and soon I found myself at Botley Hill and on the 269 heading for Warlingham and, ultimately, home.

My trips to Oxted can be remembered by what I had to eat (and let's not forget, today is Sunday so if I ride it'll be the third of four rides). So, on Friday (Good Friday) an almond croissant which, incidentally, had nothing on the almond croissants available from the AMT Coffee kiosk on East Croydon station; and then yesterday (a plain old bog standard Saturday) I ordered a cinnamon swirl. The reason I was having pastries was simple: Titsey Hill. Yes, it's not a bad hill - or not as bad as you expect it to be - but it's still a decent work-out and I figured that four consecutive days of such riding would mean I could justify a light snack half way through, which is what I did.

I sat outside of the Caffe Nero, there was little point in staying inside, not when the weather was this good, so I found a table, I'd padlocked the bike close-by and I loved every darn minute. On both occasions a large cappuccino and the aforementioned pastries and then, on the Good Friday visit and yesterday's ride, I nipped into the Sue Ryder charity shop to see what was on offer. Being as Oxted is a fairly well-to-do sort of place, the quality of the goods is pretty high. There was a small violin and a pair of binoculars and I have to admit that I was tempted to buy the latter, mainly because I remember my dad had a pair that he used to bring on holiday with us to the South Coast and watch the ships that sat seemingly motionless on the misty horizon. But I had no way of carrying such a heavy pair of binoculars back on the bike. They came complete with a case, which was even better and I'm guessing they were 10 x 50s but who knows, they might have been more powerful. But then the old reservations started to flood my brain and piss on my parade. You know the sort of thing: "What do you want those for?" "When will you use them for heaven's sake?" "What's the point?" and soon there was no point so I skulked out feeling, it has to be said, a little down in the dumps, but only temporarily. Once back on the bike and sailing along the empty high street in the sun, glad that I hadn't visited the new Starbuck's, mainly because they don't pay their taxes, I felt fine. And soon, as I rode along Granville Road, past all the massive houses and heading in the direction of the daunting Titsey Hill, my mood lightened again and all was well with the world. 

Today, Easter Sunday, my attitude towards Oxted's new Starbucks weakened. As I peered into the airy space inside, the brand spanking new wooden furniture and fittings and the fact that I was, at that moment, the only customer, I decided to order an English breakfast tea and an almond croissant. I sat outside and watched the occasional person walk up or down the high street. The sun shone down, there was very little in the way of sounds bar the purr of a coasting car or the sound of buildings (if there is such a thing). And all the while the nagging thought of the ride home was very real. Titsey Hill for the third time in as many days. If I ride here tomorrow, I was thinking, that's 80 miles since Good Friday - four days, 80 miles, not bad going. In an odd way, I was looking forward to the ride home, and yes, even Titsey Hill, it didn't bother me, I knew the deal, I was aware that any pain (there was no pain) was short-lived, there was a touch of monotony but not for long and soon there would be Botley Hill and the 269. I headed off down main street (as they'd call it in the USA), turned left, past the Library and then right into Granville Road. The weather was roughly the same as yesterday and as I rode along I felt good about life, it must have been the fresh air and the scented hedgerows, there was optimism in the air and is was brought about by the thought of another day off, Bank Holiday Monday, and the possibility of another ride to make up that magical 80 miles. I caught a weather forecast on the television and there was talk of overnight rain, occasional showers here and there, which might mean wet furniture and that would mean sitting indoors, but I was having new thoughts and they were all focused on the new Starbucks with its airy, woody interior. I know that there's free wifi and that means one thing: I can take my lap top, I can take a decent book and spend an inordinate amount of time chilling there, blogging, writing, reading, sipping tea and taking life easy. I can take the train from Sanderstead, it's only around 15 minutes, and then a short walk down the high street. I could hang there until lunch time and then get the train home again. A lot of the time it's remembering to do it; I'll be sitting at home wondering what to do when there's nobody else around and then I'll think a-ha! I could go to that Starbucks, take my lap top, take my book and just sit there all morning. My time will come, that much I do know.

Today, the distant sound of Easter church bells rang out as I started my ride up Titsey Hill. The ascent was fine and soon I reached the top and then rode along the 269. Soon I was heading along the Limpsfield Road towards home. And now, here I sit at almost 1800hrs, not really feeling hungry thanks to Lindor chocolate eggs and a large roast chicken dinner round at the mother-in-law's house. From where I am sitting now I can see another Lindor egg perched up high on the ledge of our brass mirror. It's not mine and I'm not in anyway interested in it because I know what it's about: there's an egg and there's a box of smaller wrapped eggs inside, all very nice, but I won't be going near it. Columbo's on! "I'll be the son of a gun! Where did you find that? I've been looking all over for it," says Columbo from inside a locksmith's shop. Can I be bothered to watch it? No, not really, so I'll sign off now, but I'm not planning on posting until I know whether or not tomorrow's ride takes place. I'm sure it will. Incidentally, I did watch Columbo as it starred Jack Cassidy (David's dad) and then I watched another one about a painter with three women attending to his every need.

My phone is fucked

It's now Monday, Easter Monday, and the sun is shining just like it was yesterday morning and every morning since Good Friday. I'm planning a ride to Oxted again, but there's around 45 minutes before I hit the road. I thought I'd let you know that I don't have a mobile phone at the present time. On Thursday I awoke to a frozen phone and ended up taking it to an Apple shop in Wallington where I was told I needed a new screen and that it would cost me £266, presenting me with a dilemma: do I fix it or buy a new phone, ie get into a contract (36 months at over twice what I'm paying now) or do I pay the money, get it fixed and continue with with £13/month SIM-only deal? What would you do?

It took me a day or two, but it's quite pleasant not having a phone. Yes, I'm out of touch, yes, nobody can reach me, yes, I can't reach anybody either, but there's something fairly liberating about it. I can't use Strava either, which means I can't see at a glance how many miles I've been riding. This is good and bad. Good in the sense that it doesn't really matter and bad in the sense that perhaps it does matter. Taking the former, not having Strava simply means going for a ride and not totting up the mileage and feeling either under or overwhelmed by the knowledge. Furthermore, I know it's roughly 20 miles to Oxted, it's 21-22 miles to Westerham, similarly Biggin Hill, I know that a ride to Tatsfield is roughly 16 miles and that a short ride to Botley Hill no more than 14 miles (or thereabouts) so who needs Strava? Conversely, it's nice to know the mileage, the elevation, the riding time, and it's good to record the ride, to be able to scroll back at past rides and so forth, not that I've ever done that. I suppose what I'm saying is I'm not too bothered about it. Likewise I don't have access to my work emails and why should I? They don't provide me with a phone, although, to be fair to them, they do pay my phone bill if I use it on company business. That said, it's nice to be on a train and not feel the temptation to play with my phone, but then on the other hand I can't take photographs, can't use WhatsApp and can't check out my blogs when I have nothing else to do. Crucially, though, I don't feel like a fish out of water without it. It's amazing how quickly one adapts to stuff like this and I often wish I had the nerve to do it, not have a phone, be out of touch. But the problems kick in when you're meeting somebody somewhere or you're running late or, worse still, you've had to cancel the meeting for some reason: without a phone it means leaving somebody stranded and wondering whether you're coming or not. So, in the round, it's probably best having a phone, which then begs the question of whether it needs such sophistication. Do I need a camera? Do I need any of the apps? Or do I just need a phone that somebody can call me on or I can call them? Ultimately, that's all I need. Or is it? I am a bit of a gadget freak (to an extent) and there's not much to get excited about with a Nokia 3310 is there? Besides, where would this blog be without photographs? I'd have to carry around a digital camera like I used to in the old days. Not that there's anything wrong with that, at least the image quality would be better.

Today I left the house around 0830hrs and followed the usual route into Oxted, arriving around an hour later. I seriously thought about not visiting the Starbucks and instead going back to Caffe Nero (decisions, decisions) but for some reason I found myself in Starbucks ordering a large English breakfast tea and an almond croissant, which was far, far better than the one I had in Caffe Nero on Good Friday. It was also much better than the almond croissant in Starbucks yesterday; perhaps they were fresher today for some reason. In terms of bakes, the sequence was as follows: almond croissant, cinnamon swirl, almond croissant, almond croissant, so thank the Lord for Titsey Hill is all I can say. I sat outside enjoying the sunshine and the peace and quiet of Oxted High Street early in the morning. The whole attraction of riding here was the peace, the laid back 'easy like Sunday morning' vibe, the odd person milling around, the occasional car purring along and me just sitting there sipping tea and thinking about nothing in particular. Eventually, of course, I had to ride back, and that meant preparing myself for the ride up Titsey, not that it required much preparation, it was, after all, just a case of doing it. Remember, I'd been doing it successfully over the past three days so I wasn't anticipating any problems today. Sure enough it all went well, just me, the bike and the chirping birds in the trees all the way to the top. I sailed along the 269 and then the Limpsfield Road and soon I was approaching home. I followed the usual route and then chilled in the garden drinking tea.

Cycling-wise, I redeemed myself. From Good Friday to Bank Holiday Monday I rode 4 x 20 miles to Oxted and back, via Titsey Hill, that's 80 miles in total. Last week I managed just under 70 miles, something like 68 miles, which is also good.